


all of her history etched at her feet

by little_giddy



Series: shored against my ruins [1]
Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:43:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_giddy/pseuds/little_giddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of a 'verse I'm tentatively calling ruinsverse. Odinson is the most famous name in antiques and bespoke furniture that no-one knows. Appointments with one of the brothers at their city centre storefront are selective; the location of the warehouse is unknown, with no-one but the Odinsons allowed in - until the brothers make a rare miscalculation in anger. </p><p>Jane Foster is an expert conservator and she’s been tracking the appearances of Odinson purchases at auction for years. With the unity of the family and the family business in danger, Frigga makes Jane a job offer she can’t refuse and calls the one other person allowed in the warehouse and at the Odinson dinner table: Sif. </p><p>This installment: Frigga calls Sif.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all of her history etched at her feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hariboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hariboo/gifts).



It's 2am in New York when Sif's assistant threads his way through the round tables covered in plush white tablecloths, Sif's phone in his hand.

'Forward from the office,' Graham says. His raised eyebrow tells her what he thinks of them calling so late. Sif's work/life balance is a point of regular discussion.

'I'm assuming this can't wait,' Sif answers the phone, settling a binder on a table.

'Sif.'

Her hand pauses over the list of names in front of her. She waves Graham away when he gives her a questioning glance. He rolls his eyes and puts a glass of water in front of her anyway.

'Frigga,' Sif says, settling into one of the tables in the harshly lit hall that her team is moving around like so many never sleeping ghosts. 'How did you know I'd be awake?'

'It's the non-proliferation benefit tonight until one. You're still compiling donor lists and preparing the data to be safely anonymised at the office before six.'

Sif looks around the room then lifts the table cover to check the table leg and smiles. 'Thank you, as ever, for your generous anonymous donation. It's good to know I have family support - quite literally.'

'And whether you like it or not, of course.' There's a sigh on the line and Sif frowns, taking a sip of her water. 'It was their idea.'

'Do you need anything, Frigga?'

It's not and never has been a casual question.

'You know my distaste for melodrama. What would you say if I told you this could be considered a family emergency?'

Sif looks around the room: the flute glasses, the table cloths, her staff. She touches the quietly expensive wood of the table leg for luck.

'I'll do the data in the car.'

There's a sigh of relief on the other end of the phone. 'I was hoping you'd say that. Fandral is downstairs when you're ready.'

*

The tasteful black car slips three hours, two phone calls and one ipad later away from the New York skyline. She thanks her lucky stars - or the Odinson knowledge of her diary - that this particular function had been in the same hotel as she'd been booked in. Since she never unpacked for less than a three-night stay, it had been a matter of minutes to pick up her bags on the way to the secure basement. It was supposed to be passcoded to checked in guests only, but Sif had long since stopped questioning Frigga's ability to place people where they needed to be.

'We're here,' Fandral says, leaning over the back of the chair to give her an appraising look. Sif doesn't have to look outside the car to know what she'll see: an unassuming warehouse with two or three plain vans and a steel door catching the morning light against the background of green fields and distant roads.

Despite her closeness to the Odinsons, and their closeness to no-one, Sif had always kept on good terms with the three men the Odinsons trusted to do their deliveries and pick ups the world over: Fandral, Hogun and Volstagg. The warmth and patience of Volstagg's kitchen had been a home away from her second home when Sif had grown tired of Thor and Loki's bickering as a child.

Fandral raises an eyebrow. 'It's good that you're here. They might actually listen to you.'

'We'll see about that,' Sif answers, clapping her hand against his as she slides from the back seat and shrugs her bags across her shoulders like a college freshman wandering home. It's not entirely divorced from the truth.

Fandral gives her a wry salute as she takes the chain with the golden key from around her neck and pushes her personal code into the console. It's lain close by her heart since she left.

*

Thor wipes his forehead, leaving a strip of dark varnish in his wake, and stands up. Working on a large varnish job on a 12-seater table - the basic primer, then the first coat - isn't as therapeutic as throwing things, but it keeps him awake long enough to let most of the urges to anger seep out through his pores.

He threads his way through the dark of the warehouse, ghostly with dust sheets covering the middle-tier items that don't need cold storage. His phone has been rather deliberately left in his locker by the door and he took off his favourite watch to avoid getting varnish or any of the cleaning agents on it. It could be any time of the day or night: they don't put everything in the cold vault to stave off the effects of humidity, but they do avoid letting the sunlight fade everything it touches by having no windows in the warehouse.

A flash of blue at the left catches his eye and his steps turn in that direction. Those are [Bridgewater armchairs](http://www.sellingantiques.co.uk/antiquedetail.asp?autonumber=176322); the wheels on the bases are fiddly and needed oiling when they came in. Loki would know their exact current selling estimate; somewhere between $10-15k for the pair.

Thor pauses and places a heavy hand on the nearest covered surface, then lifts it with a shake of his head. It must be the dust in the air, except -

There's a pair of expensive heels (Loki would know the price) discarded three feet away. Sif's feet are hanging over the arm of one of the chairs and she's folded into the rest of it, the hem and shoulders of a [black silk dress](http://www.net-a-porter.com/product/313902?cm_sp=we_recommend-_-313902-_-slot2) visible despite the white dust sheet pulled roughly across her body like a blanket. If she had a book on her face to block out what little light there was, he'd safely assume the last two decades a dream.

The last two days - the fire, the accusations, the blackmail threats - come crashing in on him and he finds himself sitting cross-legged in front of her knee as she wakes up. She always was a light sleeper.

'Thor,' Sif says, pushing a hand through her hair and focusing on him. 'You must tell me what the pair of you have done to worry your mother so much.'

He does.


End file.
